Ruffled Feathers
by Benny The Crazed Cartoonist
Summary: In which, Scrooge is formally introduced to his houskeeper's young granddaughter and attempts to get used to her presence in the manor. Alternately: Scrooge can't seem to keep his feathers in order. Ducktales 2017.


**This was NOT supposed to be as long as it was. **

**First and foremost, I ADORE THESE TWO NERDS. By far my favourite dynamic of the show so far. However, as I'm rather new to the fandom I fear I may have gotten characterizations wrong, so I apologize if that's how it comes across. **

**Edited in my usual half-effort style. I own nothing.**

**Let's rewrite some histories! Woo-oo!**

* * *

"Mrs. Beakley!"

The housekeeper shut off the vacuum as Scrooge approached, one eyebrow raised, giving him a thorough once-over. "Er... how are you this morning, Mr. McDuck?"

He scowled at her expression, all too aware of how he looked; puffed up more than he had been in five years, coat and hat askew. He tore a hand through the bedraggled feathers of his head, trying and _failing infuriatingly_ to straighten his ruffle. "I'm frazzled, twenty-two, _frazzled!_"

"Well I can see that." She set about winding up the vacuum cord. "What's gotten you in such a tizzy?"

"Something's wrong in the mansion." Scrooge frowned deeper. Beakley might have been a secret agent, but years of knowing a person introduced certain insights, and she was barely trying to hide the stiff set of her shoulders and the darting of her eyes. "Ah, ye feel it too!"

"W-what do you think could possibly be wrong, Mr. McDuck, we haven't had any excitement here since~"

He glowered darkly at her, daring her to say another word.

"~for a long while."

"Aye, but remember that gremlin invasion when ye first moved in? I think there's still one here." Odd noises had started recently. Scrooge McDuck knew every inch of the mansion, knew the creaks and cracks as well as he knew his own bones, but the scuttling through the hallways, or the scraping in the vents, _those_ were new. He would see a darting shadow out of the corner of his eye. His tea might have been tampered with, the spoon set an inch or two out of place. Books from the library left off shelves or on end tables around the house. Doors left open. Enough little discrepancies to _set him off_.

He started stomping down the hallway, gesturing at her to follow, determined to return order to his abode. "C'mon, twenty-two, we have an extermination to perform. I'll take the west wing and the vents, while you~" He stopped when no answering footsteps echoed his. Mrs. Beakley hadn't moved, attention focused intently on cleaning up the vacuum cleaner.

Scrooge could feel his temper burning at the base of his throat, grip tightening on his cane. She dared _ignore_ him? He gave his cane a swift rap on the floor. "Beakley, there had better be an _amazing_ reason why yer not listening to me."

Not in all his years could he have predicted her next words. "Mr. McDuck, that's not a gremlin."

He perked a bit, back straightening from his forward-focused parallel to a more alert angle. Only for a moment, though, before he narrowed his eyes at her. She'd known what was happening and allowed it to escalate to the point where it inconvenienced him?

"Explain." He growled.

Mrs. Beakley stared him down for a second, shoulders tightening again at his tone, but reigned in her temper far easier than he could. She turned to the darkened hallway behind her. "Dear, could you come out for a moment?"

Dear? It had better not be a pet. If there was one thing Scrooge _could not abide_, it was a pet mucking up his floors and his furniture and his property. Nothing but freeloaders, they were. But as a shadow detached itself from around the corner and approached, Scrooge felt his heart drop out of his chest.

_Worse_ than a pet.

It was a _child_.

She shuffled forward, alternately hiding beneath snow-white bangs and sneaking glances up at him. Scrooge's own, ah, _life experience_ deemed it difficult for him to judge the age of other people, but surely she couldn't have been more than six, dressed from head to foot in pink. She came to stand beside Mrs. Beakley, close enough to grasp the edge of her skirt in one tiny fist.

Curse his kilts, she was so _small. _

Mrs. Beakley set one hand on the girl's head. "Now Webby, dear, what did we talk about leaving no trace?"

"Sorry, Granny." The words were directed up at Beakley, but her stare never wavered from Scrooge. It seemed to crawl over his skin and disappear down the back of his collar like a spider, sending a squirmy feeling down his spine.

He fixed her with a withering glare and she dropped her eyes. Good, maybe that would teach her not to stare at her elders.

Mrs. Beakley hadn't seemed to notice. She'd need to get better control of this child. "Mr. McDuck, this is my granddaughter, Webbigail." The girl used her free hand to wave at him, a tentative smile on her beak.

He ignored it in favour of dredging up a dust-coated memory. "Not the girl from the ninja incident."

"The very same."

His temper boiled again, rushing down from his throat to his clenched fists. He came close, _so very close_, to simply blowing his cork, but the girl caught his eyes again.

Staring at him, unabashedly this time. Her eyes so wide, so full of... well, emotions Scrooge himself hadn't seen in years.

Too much like others he hadn't seen in years, and the realization almost made him keel over in agony.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't function while she was here it was too... it was too familiar.

He sent one final glare to both of them, attempting to mask his abrupt about-face as rage instead of hiding the hot sheen making his eyesight blurry. "Tell her to leave."

A rustle of fabric. "Time to go to your room, dear, I'll be up in a minute."

"Is he okay?"

Scrooge sought stability in the iron grip on his cane.

"Yes, but it's time for he and I to have a talk."

Another shift, and footsteps fading out behind him. Finally, _finally_, Scrooge got his emotions under control.

He glanced at Beakley over his shoulder. "I thought I told ye to get rid of her."

His housekeeper, his partner for so long, stared back with a stoic kind of conviction. "There was nowhere else for her to go."

"This house is no place for _children_!"

"You didn't seem to have any problem with it the last three years she's been here."

"I didn't even know she was still here!"

Too late, he realized that was the incorrect thing to say. Mrs. Beakley crossed her arms, lifting her chin smugly. "Then I assume you'll have no problems with her continuing her stay, seeing as you didn't even notice her since the ninja incident."

It was all he could do to splutter out a rebuke, "~wha... but, she... you~"

Mrs. Beakley leaned down at the waist until she stood eye-level with the indignant duck. "Mr. McDuck, I will have a talk with her about keeping to herself during her time here, something she's done quite well since she was smaller, but I refuse to have my only granddaughter taken from me because she didn't put a book back once or twice. She's the only _family_ I have left."

The word hung heavy between them, both ducks tense and coiled to snapping. An electric moment passed. Then another.

Then, Scrooge loosened his grip on his cane, sinking back into his customary slouch. When had his posture gotten so bad? "Family is nothing but trouble," he growled. "I've said it once, and I'll say it with my dying breath." If it ever happened.

Mrs. Beakley straightened to her full height, arms dropping to her sides. "That's a responsibility I'll gladly bear."

Scrooge fumed. This revelation did nothing for the agitated poof of his plumage, he could feel it brushing against the fabric of his jacket and it was all just _too much_. "Make sure ye do. And if I so much as hear a misplaced _peep_ out of the child, my therapy bills are coming out of yer salary."

Even as he stormed down the hallway, he could hear the smile in Mrs. Beakley's voice. "Of course, sir."

He grumbled to himself all the way to his private quarters, slamming the door so hard dust fell from the rafters.

If he ever saw that girl again, it would be _too soon_.

* * *

As it was, he saw her again a week later.

After he knew about her presence in his mansion, suddenly she was hard to ignore. The trailing shadow in the corner of his eye certainly drew more attention, but whenever he spun to level a hard glare at his tiny tail there would be no sign of her. The misplaced objects and disturbed furniture stopped, but there always seemed to be a distinct sense of someone having _been _there, and it grated on Scrooge's nerves. He would have complained to Mrs. Beakley immediately if he'd just been able to _see _the cursed girl, then he'd have a legitimate reason. Based purely on the air of a room? He could imagine how that conversation would go.

_"Beakley, your granddaughter is disturbing me because she goes into rooms!"_

_"And you expect her to sit on the roof her entire life? Grow up, McDuck."_

Curse her, curse them both, and curse plain old logic for existing.

Grumbling all this under his breath, he attempted to balance his porridge and his tea on the breakfast tray while still keeping a firm hold on the newspaper under his arm. Also curse Mrs. Beakley's early morning runs to the grocery store. Usually he wasn't awake until after she got back, but a persistent dream forced him out of bed early today.

_You lost her! You could have called her back!_

_I'm taking them. _

_Don't call me._

He scowled, trying to wipe his mind clear. A persistent dream, but not an uncommon one.

Scrooge pushed through the door to the dining room, racking his brains for something else, _anything else_, to think about, and his mind stopped working entirely.

The girl (Wanda? Web... Webbigail, that was it) sat across the table facing the door, mouth full of toast and pale as the moon. He could see the progression of her shoulders hunching up to her ears, eyes widening at his entrance. She looked utterly terrified.

Scrooge sighed heavily, rolling his eyes as far as they could go. Today was _not_ the day for this. He didn't spare her another glance as he set his breakfast tray down at his spot at the head of the table (_far_ away from her) and unfolded the morning paper, flipping it open with practiced ease.

A sudden clatter of dishes and the _thump thump thump _of webbed feet irritated Scrooge more in an instant than anything else could in a lifetime. He slammed the paper onto the table, _barely_ resisting the urge to shoot to his feet. His initial growl rose to a shout, "if you~"

The words died in his throat, along with his anger. Nothing. No Webbigail, no plates, no cup. In fact, the only thing that gave away the fact that she was ever there in the first place was the gentle swinging of the door to the kitchen.

Scrooge looked around in disbelief. There must be something here that indicated Webbigail's presence not five seconds ago. But no, the dining room stood clean of childish evidence.

When Mrs. Beakley had talked about 'leave no trace', she hadn't been kidding.

Scrooge allowed himself to sink back into a slouch. All the better, now he didn't have to worry about endless prattle all morning from a six year old. He fixed the chair she'd sat in, at the far end of the table, in a vicious glare as he sipped his tea. Good riddance.

He tucked into his breakfast, crushing the morning's dream under the stock reports from the paper.

He wouldn't admit to _anyone_ that his eyes flicked up periodically to the now-empty chair.

* * *

Today _ would_ have been a good day if not for the stabbing pain of his sciatic nerve sending cold bursts of agony down his back every time he took a step.

During the meetings in his office, everyone had been congratulating each other on good stock exchanges and profitable business deals. Even the old buzzards of his council deigned to crack a smile at the happiness of his investors. A good day, they all said, even a _great_ day!

Except for the fact that sitting through all those meetings caused the worse sciatic flare-up he'd had in seven years.

The ride home with Launchpad, while never exactly a _treat_, was particularly maddening and by the time Scrooge got back to the mansion all he wanted to do was kick back in his armchair with a book on foreign culture and read until his eyes dried out.

The walk up the driveway had taken forever with his now clipped step. The stairs up to the mansion even longer. By the time he reached the library, Scrooge wasn't sure if he'd be able to get up again if he sat down.

Curse his kilts, he was certainly going to take that risk though. Or, at least, he thought he was.

Today would have been a good day, if not for his aching nerve and the fact that Webbigail currently occupied his favourite reading chair, completely engrossed in her own book.

Scrooge stopped, allowing most of his weight to lean onto his cane in effort to take pressure off his back, and searched the ceiling for patience. He was too tired to deal with the child today, and the thought of hobbling all the way back across the mansion with his back in this state made him want to scream.

No choice then. He could stand sharing the library with the girl for a few hours, he supposed, but _tear his tartan_ if she thought he wouldn't demand his reading chair back!

He selected a volume on Aztec history and approached his chair from an angle, opening his beak to announce his presence, but the cover of Webbigail's book caught his eye. Immediately, he drew back in confusion, one eyebrow shooting up.

_Torture devices and Interrogation Techniques of the Middle Ages?_

He worked his beak, trying to find something to say. It couldn't have been a mistake on her part, she studied the worn pages with such an intense expression of concentration that Scrooge felt as though he were intruding on something intimate. Did her grandmother know she was reading that? Was that... normal for six year olds? Was she even six, or was he just _really_ bad with ages?

"Ehm," he finally found his voice, reedier than his usual growl. Due to shock, he supposed. "Isn't that book a little, well, _advanced_ for ye?"

Webbigail shrieked , and Scrooge worked his eardrum with a finger to try to stop the ringing. She bolted out of the chair, somehow using the same movement to set the book on the side table and leap into a fighting stance so similar to Mrs. Beakley that Scrooge actually took a step back. Of course, his sciatic complained loudly as he did so and a hiss escaped his teeth.

At his pained noise, Webbigail shot rigid like a soldier, stare fixed intently on his left shoulder. Scrooge glanced down. Her fists were shaking.

She opened her mouth and words poured out like a torrent, threatening to knock him backwards another step. "I-I-thought-you-were-still-at-work-please-don't-shout-at-me!"

Scrooge took a second to process the word-vomit. "'Please don't'~ lass, I'm not going to~"

She didn't wait for him to finish. "I'll-get-out-of-your-way-I'm-so-sorry!"

And just like the breakfast incident prior, she vanished so quickly Scrooge's coat fluttered in her wake.

Except this time, not so traceless. Her book sat, forgotten, on the side table.

Scrooge plopped down into his chair, resting his cheek on one fist and glaring at nothing. his fingers started tapping a nonsensical rhythm on the arm of the chair of their own violation. That girl, hadn't even given him a chance to get a word in edgewise. What did she think he was, a monster?

All the better for it, perhaps. He'd told Mrs. Beakley years ago that this was no place for a child and his reasoning still stood. Too many dangerous, or _inappropriate_, objects in the mansion for a child.

He snatched up the book she'd left, glowering at its cover. Case in point.

In all fairness, she probably hadn't even been aware of what she was reading. This particular volume was illustrated, perhaps she'd just been looking at the pictures (even if they were mostly graphic renditions of torture devices being used).

As he man-handled the book in a way _no person should of a tome this age_, something fluttered into his lap. A lined piece of paper, folded neatly in half. What had the lass been leaving in his books? Scrooge yanked the paper open, fully expecting to see doodles of flowers or butterflies or some such nonsense.

He was _the farthest thing from prepared_ to see replicated drawings of various torture machines in sparkly, pink gel pen, notes on operation and construction carefully printed along the sides of each one. Though the colour of the pen made his head throb (_seriously_, the colour should be outlawed!), Scrooge squinted closely at the notes in the margins. "Bless me bagpipes..."

She'd been scribbling _design improvements_ next to her drawings!

Through his initial disbelief and balk at having _anything _positive to say about _anyone_, Scrooge couldn't help but feel maybe the _tiniest_ bit impressed at her work. This duckling was meant for big things, he'd bet his fortune on it.

Overlapping that initial impressed glow, there sat a sting of guilt. It hurt more than his sciatic ever could.

Gently, he tucked the paper back into the book and set it on his lap. He pulled open his own volume and attempted to get lost in the mystery of Aztec culture.

Which didn't work all that well when his attention kept sliding down to the book she'd left behind.

Today _would _ have been a good day, if not for the throbbing of his sciatic and the uncomfortable weight somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

He took to carrying Webbigail's forgotten book around in the inside pocket of his housecoat. Surely when he lived in the same house as her it wouldn't be_ too_ difficult to return it?

How wrong he'd been.

_Seeing_ her wasn't the problem, no. Now that Scrooge went actively _looking_, Webbigail seemed to be a constant in the old manor, either in the library or prowling the hallways or playing in the vast gardens of the estate. She shouted sometimes and laughed a lot, excited footsteps racing up and down the halls, so _hearing _her wasn't the problem either.

_Catching_ her, however? Therein lay the rub.

Webbigail possessed an _infuriating_ ability to simply vanish whenever she didn't want to be found, and apparently that power came into play whenever Scrooge sought to speak to her. If he spotted her at the end of the hallway, by the time he'd turned the corner she was nowhere to be found. If she was playing in the gardens, when he found his way through the maze of topiaries she'd be back inside. Even if he saw her in the library, he could glance away and she'd be gone by the time he looked back, leaving behind a _palpable _air of fear.

Yes, Webbigail was afraid of him.

Under normal circumstances, Scrooge would see it as a badge of honour. After all, he didn't live to be liked, he lived to make money, and scaring children would do wonders for his reputation as a ruthless businessman.

Outside his own house, of course. _Within_ the house, it just served to saw down his last nerve until every time he lost Webbigail down a dark corridor he would come dangerously close to smashing something. The constant air of someone being on high alert, of being scared and energetically aware of his presence and making a point to avoid it _day in and day out_ wore his patience to the breaking point. It was hardly even about the book anymore, now all Scrooge wanted was for her to _calm down a little_!

If he could ever catch her to tell her.

He'd considered going to Mrs. Beakley about it, if anyone could track down the girl _she_ could, but every time he entertained the idea a mental picture would come swimming up from the depths of his brain of her _insolently smug face_ at him asking where her granddaughter might be.

_"Why, Mr. McDuck, are you taking an interest? Feel like becoming a family man, do you?"_

He shuddered at the thought.

Family man. Not for a million dollars.

But he couldn't take much more of this, his nerves were rubbed raw. It was starting to affect him. Not a day went by when he wasn't half again his size due to jittery ruffles. He couldn't be himself in his own home anymore, and it _needed to stop._

As tonight attested, the electric energy in the house proved hazardous to his sleep schedule as well. An hour tossing and turning beneath clouded thoughts finally gave way to Scrooge tossing his blankets back, fumbling for his slippers, and tying his housecoat around his middle. The weight of the book rested comfortably against his ribs.

He considered leaving the book behind, but it didn't matter one way or another in the long run, so he didn't expend effort on removing it.

He shuffled down the corridor without use of a candle. These walls belonged to him, and he could transverse them blindfolded and backwards.

Stifling a head-splitting yawn, he pushed open the door to the kitchen. Almost immediately, his feathers fluffed up again and he growled loudly, attempting to smooth them down as he set the kettle on the stove. Curse this constant storm of tension, why did it sit so strongly on his shoulders here, anyway?

The creak of a floorboard answered the question almost as soon as it was formed.

He swung around, cane at the ready, pointed directly into the horrified face of Webbigail.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Scrooge lowered his cane with a sigh and a tired palm to his face. It was too late for this. Or too early. What was the time anyway? "Webbigail~"

"I'm sorry, Mr. McDuck," at least the words weren't coming out as a single sound anymore, bless his bagpipes for small victories, "I was just leaving, pretend I wasn't here." She all but bolted for the door.

That familiar anger burst in the base of this throat, flowing out through his hands into his cane like a well-practiced dance. He allowed his cane to lead with one sharp, resounding _rap_ on the kitchen tiles. "Webbigail!"

She froze, one hand on the door.

"Turn around."

Pregnant hesitation, but she did, fixing her stare solidly on the ground and grasping her elbow with her opposite hand. Her fingers dug deep wrinkles into the pink fabric of her nightgown.

Scrooge sought the ceiling, this time for the right words as well as patience. "We need to talk."

Her eyes flicked up to him. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes. Well, no," gah, of all times, why was he so inarticulate _now_? "Look, um... I understand that I'm maybe not... the _nicest_ person to be around, but I can't have ye pussy-footing around yer own house, it's getting on me last nerve. Ye know ye don't have to _avoid_ me, aye?"

The hand dropped from her elbow, stance resembling her grandmother's a little more. "You're not... you won't get mad at me?"

He held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong, ye shouldn't _bother_ me, but we live in the same house for better or worse, so we can at least coexist in some manner of civility. I know ye like the library, ye don't have to turn tail if I come in too."

She turned a little pink, as if just remembering the library incident now. "I just... didn't want to make you angry."

Scrooge's shoulders dropped, and for the first time in weeks he finally felt all his feathers settle into place. He reached into his housecoat pocket and drew out her abandoned book, offering it to her. "Being in the same room with ye won't make me angry, lass. Ye don't have to be _afraid _of me."

It was like someone stopped time, removed the old Webbigail, and replaced her with an entirely new model before starting the clock again. Her downcast expression vanished in the light of the widest smile Scrooge had ever seen on a living creature, fists under her chin and practically bouncing. "Thank you, Mr. McDuck!"

She surged forward so quickly, Scrooge actually raised his hands to defend himself before opening his eyes and realizing the girl had attached herself to his middle, face buried in his stomach.

This was...

This was new.

And, might he add, _entirely_ out of his comfort zone. He lowered his hands, trying (and failing) to decide where to put them, and eventually settled on patting her head awkwardly. "Eh, aye, right, not a problem." Now what? Was there a code word to get her to let go?

Oh, apparently not. Webbigail detached herself, looking mercifully calmer but no less happy. She stared at him in the same way she had weeks ago, that sent creepy-crawlies down Scrooge's spine.

Time to move along. "Shouldn't ye be in bed?"

Ah, _that_ got her attention. "Well, I was, but then I got a little hungry, and then _you_ came in, so..."

He couldn't stop a smile, for some reason. It pinched the sides of his beak, like muscles that weren't used to being active. "Ah, midnight snack time, was it? I'm feeling a little peckish myself. Care to join me?" He tapped the book in her hands. "Maybe we could read a little before bed? Discuss ancient torture methods?"

He dug a finger into his ear at another sound she made, this one more like a deflating balloon, before she nodded with such vigour he feared her head might topple off. Retrieving the now gently bubbling kettle, Scrooge made himself a cup of tea while Webbigail poured a glass of milk (without spilling a drop, thank goodness). After scouring the cupboards, they found a package of homemade oatmeal cookies and sat at the small table in the kitchen, the book open between them, eating themselves sick.

Scrooge knew they stayed up way past her bedtime.

* * *

Scrooge glanced up from his Encyclopaedia of Ancient Evils as a small shape moved in the shadows of the library. Webbigail carefully selected a volume (Dark Arts of Central America, if he read the spine correctly), and wordlessly plopped down onto the floor beside his reading chair, leaning her head against the arm, where she stayed for a good, long while.

Scrooge felt another smile tug at his beak, and this one didn't hurt quite as much.

_**END**_


End file.
